


Residue

by doesnotloveyou



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Battle of New York (Marvel), Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 12:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17560604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doesnotloveyou/pseuds/doesnotloveyou
Summary: Natasha and Clint stumble into a suite in Stark Tower to nurse their wounds after the Battle of New York. With Loki being held so nearby, Clint can only think of revenge.





	Residue

**Author's Note:**

> Import-fic from FF.net

_Stark Tower, Manhattan, May 4 th 2011_

* * *

 

            The room is pristine, new, untouched, clean. A room for party guests to stay the night, for champagne laden trysts, and drunken slumbers. It’s orderly, calm, and inviting.

             “I can’t believe I ate what I did.” The door swings open. “Thor was going to make me puke.”

            Clint cringes then burps. “I kind of fell asleep.”

            Natasha runs her fingers through her hair roughly, fluffing it out to get some air. God that feels good.

            Clint unzips his suit, stiff with sweat, and tosses it on the floor. He goes to take his undershirt off as well then stops. “Is this my room or yours?”

            Unzipping her boots she waves him off. She sits down on the edge of the bed and presses her fists into the covers. That was a nightmare.

            “I’m gonna shower.” Clint announces from the bathroom.

            “Uh-huh.” She mutters. They probably shouldn’t be here. They should, in fact, be reporting back to SHIELD. Stark Tower _was_ suffering some communication problems after the energy crisis, but that’s a pretty pathetic excuse. “Clint?”

            “Yah?”

            Natasha pushes off the bed as the shower turns on. “I’m gonna find a way to call Fury.”

            “Yup,” he replies, but she’s pretty sure he didn’t hear anyway. The door closes firmly behind her.

            Water as cold as he could get it, Clint stands under the stream, eyes closed, letting the soot and sweat dredge off him.

            “Shit!” he jumps back from the freezing stream, then slams it off. The water stops abruptly and he braces himself against the toiletry rack as his knees shake. “Shit, shit, shit.”

            Natasha. No, she left. He shakes his head and drops to his knees. There’s no one around, just, just relax, okay, just…

            Should’ve taken the shot. An eye for an eye. Skewer that monster like he’d wanted to. Shit, shit, shit.

            Water collects in a pool underneath him, running down his body, trickling, chilling, like fingernails dragging over his skin. He leans his head back, gasping. Get a breath, just relax, dumbass.

            Flashbacks. Those are on the horizon aren’t they? Crap can’t just be over it has to haunt you too. Not every day is going to be as busy as today was; definitely not the nights. Shit, shit, shit.

            His teeth clench, his hands turn to fists. That _creep_ is in the tower, he’s still here. Clint gets up and forces the shower door open. He towels down and dresses in his stiff, reeking clothes again.

            Who cares? Who cares if Fabio is guarding the pipsqueak? Clint sees himself in the mirror, all five feet ten inches, beaten, bruised, brainwashed, exhausted, and above all painfully human. To top it off there’s still a dull ache in his temple where he came in violent contact with a metal railing earlier today. Yeah, he can take on Fabio, piece of cake.

            Deep breath. Flinch as the door opens. “Are we screwed?”

            She walks into the bathroom meditatively. “I don’t…think so.”

            “What’d he say?”       

            “We’re off the hook. ‘Get lost.’ Effective immediately.”

            “That sounds…bad?”

            “No, I think the Council…Clint, what happened?”

            “Nuthin.” He tosses the towel onto the counter and squeezes past her. “It’s all yours.”

            “Clint,” her voice has a commanding edge. “Don’t go down there.”

            “I’m _not.”_

            She comes to him fast, fast like she did on the walkway, and he doesn’t know if he should dodge or fight. She’s between him and the door, eyes narrow, jaw tight, chin jutting as she glares into him. He looks away, his face burns. He might fight, but she’s better off than him, she didn’t crash through a plate glass window. And he’s hurt her enough today, done enough damage, lost enough respect.

            Gently, she touches his arm and his anger cools. He looks her in the eye. Cool blue, deep, sharp. Those eyes see right through him and he’s always allowed it to be that way.

            “I’m fucked, Nat.” He rubs his hands over his face, scowling. “If you had it, if they were here right now, in a cage…if you could take that chance…”

            She sucks dried blood off her lip. “You look like hell, Clint. Get some sleep.”

            _“Nat.”_

            “The last thing you need is a magical hammer wedged in your skull,” she says finally. “Besides he’s still got that tongue.”

            “Then let’s cut it out.”

            “Really?” she squints. “Huh, maybe I didn’t hit you hard enough, you seem to have picked up a few of his traits.”

            “Are you fucking kidding me?”

            “You really think revenge is your best answer right now?”

            “No but when the real pain comes, when the flashbacks and the casualty list arrive, it’ll be a genuine comfort to know I used the alien Mussolini as target practice.”

            “Then by all means,” she steps away and opens the door. “Go for it, get your revenge. Just don’t expect to be coming back up here.”

            “Are—Nat. C’mon.”

            She purses her lips and leans on the door.

            “Jesus.” He turns back into the bathroom.

            She waits by the door for a moment, glancing out at the empty hallway. Closing the door quietly, she enters the bathroom. Clint’s leaned over the sink, hands clenching the edges, grinding his teeth, screwing his eyes shut. Carefully she approaches, watching him in the mirror.

            “He’s in a cage, he’s going home in a day, and so are we. He lost.” Wipes matted soot off his shoulder. “Don’t let him win.

            Clint pushes off the counter and turns. Anticipating him, she rests her hands on his shoulders, and lets him lean his head on hers as he holds her carefully by the waist. The crumpled towel slips off the counter to the floor, landing in a puddle of filthy water tarnishing the smooth marble tile.


End file.
